


Fine Line

by Smallheathen



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: A Tale of Two Cities References, Dominant Tommy Shelby, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Parent Tommy Shelby, Smut, nanny reader, treating gunshot wounds is sexy now, watch me try to shoehorn a parallel between tommy and sydney carton lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26748739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smallheathen/pseuds/Smallheathen
Summary: After Grace's death, Tommy hires a nanny to take care of Charlie. He didn't expect to fall for her, though.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Reader, Tommy Shelby/You
Comments: 33
Kudos: 169





	1. The Interview

"Handsome, isn't he?" The housekeeper, who introduced herself to you as Mrs. Braithwaite at the door, asks. 

"I hadn't noticed." Heart thudding in your chest, you rip your gaze from Mr. Shelby's life-sized portrait, which occupies most of the room's south side.  
You've never been in such a fine house before.

You anxiously wring your straw hat in your hands, intimidated by the stateliness and sophistication of the place. It's your best hat-the one with the pastel pink carnations and French blue ribbon that you usually only wear on Sundays or when Willy takes you to the fair in Cheltenham on his free weekends. The hat doesn't stop you from feeling like some plain, provincial country bumpkin who's way out of her depth. 

"You are very young," Mrs. Braithwaite remarks as she leads the way. She has the complexion of spoiled milk and an unpleasant, pinched set to her mouth.

"I'm twenty-five in June."

"Mr. Shelby values experience in his staff," she says stiffly. "Besides, it's not proper for a young, unmarried woman to live under the same roof with a single gentleman."

"I thought Mr. Shelby was married."

"Don't you read the papers? Mrs. Shelby left us nine months ago. No one is allowed her name in this house," Mrs. Braithwaite warns and stops you in front of a wood-paneled door. 

"Wait here." She walks through the door, keeping it ajar. You nervously smooth your hands over your dress as you wait, wiping sweaty palms on the cotton.

"Mr. Shelby, a Miss Y/L/N is here to see you because of the advertisement in the Birmingham Mail."

"Advertisement?" You've never had such strong reaction to hearing someone's voice. It's deep and rough and makes you a little weak in the knees. But then again, you've never been in the presence of a man like Tommy Shelby.

"The nanny position we discussed, Sir?"

Pause.

"Right, send her in. And tell the kitchens that I'll be going out tonight."

"But the cook had the gamekeeper shoot two marsh hens for dinner."

"Then have them delivered to the Institute. They'll have use for them there."

"Very good, Sir."

Footsteps come toward you. "Mr. Shelby will see you now." 

Taking a deep breath, you force your legs into motion. 

He doesn't turn his gaze from the rain-blurred window as you step into the drawing room.

"I hope Mary didn't make you wait too long," he says flatly.

Not sure where to stand, you stop in front of the desk, feeling like you're suspended in mid-air. "It was no trouble, Sir. I'm just grateful for the opportunity."

He turns around, face carefully blank.

Your stomach dips. 

His pinstripe three-piece suit costs probably more than what you make in a year. He really is handsome in a cold, imperious way, but the painting you'd surveyed in the hall doesn't even begin to do his eyes justice. The color reminds you of the little lake by your village when it's frozen and still in winter, covered by that treacherously thin kind of ice that made the boys in your village reckless. The lethal kind of ice that cracks and drowns. 

The same danger lies behind Tommy Shelby's eyes. 

"Do you drink, Miss Y/L/N?"

"I don't."

He nods to himself. "Smoke?"

"No."

"Mind if I do?"

You lift one shoulder, smiling shyly. "It's your house, Sir. I can hardly object."

He pulls a cigarette from a small, silver case, and brushes it over his lips before he lights it, glancing at the file in his hand. Your resume and references.

"Here it says you've spent the past year in the employment of a family in Bordesley Green. Three children, aged two to nine. Why did you leave?" 

"The Bransons were good people, but I'm looking for a job closer to home. My parents are getting older and they need help running the shop from time to time."

He nods again and skims the papers in his hand. 

Your eyes fall on the small, framed photograph on his desk. A blonde woman, about 5 years your senior, with lovely, melancholic features. Mrs. Shelby was beautiful.

Your attention snaps back to her husband, reading from your resume.

"Born and raised in Stoneleigh. You received a good education. Your brothers, James and William, fought at the Somme. One got awarded the Military Medal before he got blown to pieces."

This bit of information definitely isn't on your resume.Your fingers tighten on your hat, crushing the small straw flowers. You wore the hat with a black ribbon at Jamie's funeral.

"How did you-"

"William works at the BSA factory, in the paint shop. He keeps interesting company. I'm told he and his friends drink at the Mother Red Cap in Saltley twice a week. You know what kind of people frequent that pub? IRA sympathizers. Anti-treaty paddies."

Smoke curls from the cigarette between his fingers, vanishing as it blows against the cold glass. "As a rule, I security vet all my staff. I'm a cautious man."

"Does that mean you won't hire me?" You hold your breath.

His piercing blue eyes consider you, stripping you to the bone as he brings the cigarette back to his lips. They're full for a man's. "Do you know what I do, Miss Y/L/N?"

You know he isn't talking about the automobiles and the gin, but the robberies, the illegal gambling and the cuttings. 

You bravely stick out your chin. "Everyone knows what you do, Mr. Shelby. You're quite the celebrity around here."

He arches a dark, elegant eyebrow. "Now, as far as I can tell, you're a good girl from a good, honest family. You could find work elsewhere. Why would you want to work for someone like me?"

You swallow the lump in your throat. "Because the advert said that you intend to pay eight pounds a month and I can't afford to be principled," you say honestly. "And I am of the opinion that children can't be held responsible for their fathers' sins."

Mr. Shelby is silent for a moment, thinking. You try your hardest not to squirm under his intense gaze. 

"Mary?"

"Yes, Sir?" The housekeeper appears at the door within seconds. Eavesdropping, probably. "Shall I show Miss Y/L/N to the door?" She asks hopefully.

"No, please show her to her room. The room next to the nursery will do."

Her mouth presses into a thin, disapproving line. "But, that's your wife's-"

"Thank you, that will be all, Mary," he dismisses her and turns back to the window, smoke sailing over his head like storm clouds.

The relief that washes over you is so intense, you sway on your feet. "I promise, you won't regret this, Mr Shelby," you tell him eagerly. "I'm a hard worker."

The rain distorts his reflection in the window. "See that I don't."


	2. The Bullet

Tommy Shelby is like a ghost in his own home, haunting the grounds at night and returning to the house in the early, washed-out morning hours.

You sometimes see him standing by the window of his office when you and Charlie play ball in the garden, his suit-clad form silhouetted against the dark maroon drapes. Crouching behind Charlie, you wave his pudgy little arm. The man doesn’t wave back.

The few interactions you have with him are brief and impersonal. Is Charlie asleep? Did he ask for me? Does he like his new toy?

It’s not until two weeks later that that changes.

You’re downstairs in the kitchen after putting Charlie to bed, warming your hands on a cup of hot, sticky-sweet cocoa. A copy of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities propped against an empty milk jug. For you, there’s nothing like getting lost in a book after a long, hard work day.

The cook, his assistant and the kitchen maids finished up their preparations for the next day hours ago. You muffle a yawn into your shoulder as the grandfather clock in the foyer chimes two. The printed letters start melting off the page in front of you, exhaustion clouding your brain like sheets of thick November fog. Charlie has been especially fussy today.

Suddenly, the door is shoved open and none other than Thomas Shelby barges into the kitchen.

Startled by his sudden appearance, you knock over the book together with the milk pitcher. He never comes down to the servants’ quarters.

“Mr. Shelby, Sir,” you say, a little breathless. He stops in the process of stripping off his suit jacket, his icy gaze flying to your sleepy form at the table. Your bare toes curl against the chair leg. You feel naked in your cotton nightgown even though you’re wearing a thick, plaid flannel robe over it–to ward off the drafts and dank cold that seeps into the house despite a fire burning in almost every room.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t ask if I could peruse your library.” You hug the book to your chest. “I’ll put it back, at once.”

“At ease,” he says dryly, balling up his jacket and throwing it on the table. He’s wearing a leather holster over his white shirt, sheathing a sleek black revolver. He takes that off too.

“Holy mother of god,” you whisper when you see the blood drenching his left sleeve, making it stick to his arm like a second, red skin.

A glob of bile rises in your throat at the tangy, metallic scent. “What happened to you?”

He takes a whiskey bottle from the high shelf and uncorks it with his teeth. “Never ask questions you don’t want the answers to, Miss Y/L/N.”

Despite the circumstances, your cheeks heat as he sits down and starts to peel off his blood-soaked shirt. A pink flush crawls up to your ears. The only men you’ve seen without a shirt on are your brothers before the war and Mr. Shelby isn’t a teenage boy. Far from it.

He takes a large swig from the bottle, not even flinching as the alcohol burns down his throat.

You jerk when he slams the bottle on the table.

“What are you waiting for? Go to bed and forget what you saw,” he says roughly, using his ruined shirt to wipe at the blood. Your insides churn as you see where the bullet tore the flesh of his shoulder. It looks bad. You don’t reckon many have seen Tommy Shelby so raw and vulnerable.

“With respect, sir, I’m not leaving you like that,” you say stubbornly. “And there’s nothing you can say that’d make me change my mind.”

He stares at you with an inscrutable expression, then he seems to come to a decision. “On your feet, then.”

You do as he says, rounding the table until you’re so close that you can see the fine drops of sweat on his forehead. An old scar on his cheekbone. The small dusting of hair on his chest. You can smell the night air on his clothes–coal dust and amber and clean sweat. Musky and sharp.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to fetch Mrs. Braithwaite? Or call an ambulance?”

He takes another long pull from the bottle. “No, I want you.”

You fuss with the belt of your robe. “Alright, what do you need me to do?”

“Ever removed a bullet?” He asks, very calm for someone who’s been shot. It must be a relatively common occurrence for him.

You bite your lip. “Of course not.”

“Take two spoons,” he instructs, breathing a little harder. “The smallest ones you can find.”

You don’t question him, just rush to the cabinet, silverware rattling around the drawers as you dig for a pair of spoons that fit the description he just gave you. When you find what you’re looking for, you hurry back to him, adrenaline creasing your nerves.

He nods his approval and pours whiskey over the utensils. It dribbles messily over your hand and splashes on your feet.

“Use the ends of the spoons to locate the bullet and pull it out.”

“You mean, poke around until I find it?” You ask, sufficiently horrified.

His eyes are bright with pain. “That’s the idea. Try to be quick about it.”

Steeling yourself, you lean over him and prod the bullet hole with the end of the spoon. Mr. Shelby’s clenched fist turns white on the table. The sounds are awful. You bite the inside of your cheek hard as you keep going. After a minute, you catch the edge of something hard, but your hand slips and Mr. Shelby’s dark head falls against the side of your arm with a pained grunt, his breath hissing through his teeth.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sir, I’m sorry,” you panic. “Oh god.” Are you imagening it or is there more blood than before?

“Steady, steady,” he says, his voice slightly shaky, but gentle and firm as if he’s soothing a nervous mare. You heard he’s good with horses. That he doesn’t just keep a dozen of them in his stables because that’s what people of his station do. “It’s all right, you can do it. Breathe through it. Just breathe.”

Why is he comforting you? Shouldn’t you be doing that?

“Tell me about the book you were reading,” he demands, face tight and pale, the distraction probably as much for his benefit as yours.

“A Tale of Two Cities?” You frown, twisting the spoons slightly. Almost…. “You don’t read, Sir?”

“Not for pleasure.”

“Well, I suppose the book is about a revolution. And it’s about a man, a drunk and cynic, who cares for no one and nothing in the world–until he falls in love with a woman. She changes everything.”

“Does he deserve her?”

“Oh no.”

“And does she love him back?”

“Yes, she loves him in her own way, but she marries someone else.” There’s a metallic sound as the spoon scrapes the bullet. You can hear his teeth clench. “No offense, Mr. Shelby, but you remind me of him.”

He lets out a low shout as you pull out the bullet without warning, holding the spoons like a pair of tweezers.

“It’s over, it’s over. You made it, sir.” Squeezing his uninjured shoulder, you drop the bullet on the table along with the spoons. The smears of blood makes the silver look rusted.

Panting, he straightens in the chair and reaches for the bottle, pushing it into your bloody hands.

“What happens to him? The cynic?”

“He dies.”

“Sounds about right–FUCK–”

You wince in sympathy as the alcohol cauterizes the wound and he slams a fist on the table.

Working quickly, you rip up his shirt and knot the strip of fabric around his shoulder, dressing the wound while he recovers.

“You’ve done that before.”

“When I was sixteen, my mother and I attended a first aid class at the church hall in Warwick during the war. I was terrible at it.” A small grin comes with the memory. “It was a good thing the war was over before I could volunteer. I got sent home for accidentally setting the training dummy on fire.”

Mr. Shelby stands up and tests the makeshift bandage with two fingers. “I can count myself lucky then, eh?” It’s not quite a smile but the skin around his mouth isn’t so tight anymore.

“You haven’t tried my cooking yet, sir.”

Too shy to meet his eyes suddenly, you drop your gaze to your shiny, red palms. How people get used to the sight of blood is beyond you. You march over to the sink and turn on the faucet. The water tinges pink as it swirls down the drain.

Rough, callused fingers firmly wrap around your wrist.

“Let me.”

A shiver of awareness races down your spine as Tommy Shelby methodically washes his blood from your hands. Your heart, the foolish thing, stutters in your chest like a car engine on a cold winter night.

When your hands are clean, he dries them with a dishrag, his movements quick and efficient. This means nothing, you admonish yourself as he lets go of your hands and tosses the rag into the sink. Don’t get the wrong idea.

“Will you be alright?” You ask, unsure what to do with your hands now.

He drops into the chair and picks up the half empty bottle of whiskey, letting his head fall back. “You worry for me, Y/N?”

He’s never called you by your given name before.

“Someone has to, sir. I won’t ask why you came home with a bullet in your shoulder. I know it’s not my place. But Charles needs his father. Alive.”

His gaze is slightly unfocused as he stares up at the ceiling, jaw working. “Go to bed, Y/N,” he says quietly, ending the conversation.

You’re scurrying to the door when his voice stops you. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He points to the book you abandoned on the table.

“I’ve read it a hundred times.” Hovering in the doorway, you twist your hands in the fluffy robe. “You might like it.”

“But I already knows how it ends.”

“Does the ending matter?” You smile wanly at him. “Good night, sir.”

Tommy waits until your steps have receded down the hall and up the servant staircase before he reaches for it.


	3. The Hunter

"Who is he?"

"Sir?" You ask with a frown, balancing a squirming Charlie on your hip. The boy is babbling and making grabby hands at the horses in the paddock.

  
"The man who's taking you out, tonight." Mr. Shelby's back is turned on you as he inspects the hoof of gray filly that's tied to the fence, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.

  
Visiting the stables after breakfast has become somewhat of adaily ritual for you and Charlie. But recently, in the weeks following what you refer to as 'the bullet incident' in your mind, Mr. Shelby started coming along on your walks–to check on his prized horses.

He even joined you in the breakfast room, this morning. Mary nearly dropped the plate with the bacon when he consumed something other than cigarettes for breakfast.

  
"Is this an interrogation, sir?" You ask cheekily.

  
He pats the horse's flank, ignoring your question. Back to being aloof and unapproachable.

  
"His name is Mark Ramsay, if you must know. He's a reporter with the Birmingham Evening Dispatch."

  
"A journalist?" A muscle in his jaw ticks.

  
"He's a nice man," you say defensively.

  
"And is that what you want, Y/N? A nice man?"

  
Your stomach swoops. "Most women do, Mr. Shelby."

  
The moment is stolen by Charlie reaching for his father with short, chubby arms.

"Papa, up, up!" He crows excitedly and bounces up and down.

  
"Come here, little man, that's it." Mr. Shelby's face softens as he lifts Charlie into his arms, settling him against his chest as the three of you head back to the house.

  
He doesn't say or do anything to stop you when you pull the cigarette from his lips (no smoking around Charles), the work-roughened pad of your thumb catching the corner of his mouth. You shiver inwardly at the contact and the sensation works its way down the back of your neck.

  
What you don't expect is the confusing urge to bring the cigarette to your own lips and inhale its toxic fumes into your body.

  
You quickly put it out with the underside of your boot.

~

"So, how long have you been working for Shelby?"

  
This is the third time in five minutes that your date by has steered the conversation back to Shelby Company Limited, and frankly, you're getting a tad annoyed with him.

  
"A few months," you answer vaguely and knock back your gin, signaling the waiter for another.

  
He took you to a dance hall in Digbeth. It's an elegant, ornate establishment. Nothing like the gymnasium-turned-dance-hall back home in Stoneleigh where only people over fifty gather.

  
"What about you?" You make a point of changing the subject. "You're not from Birmingham, are you?"

  
"I came down from Manchester a yearago," Ramsay drawls. He has a friendly, somewhat unmemorable face–one of those that you pass every day without taking notice of their features. His aftershave is giving you a headache. "We hear a lot about the wars the gangs of Birmingham wage on each other up there. The Peaky Blinders."

  
You stiffen, a prickly, uneasy feeling creeping upyourspine. "This really isn't–"

  
"I couldn't believe my luck when you agreed to this meeting. You must know about their operation. I mean, you live in the same house as the man behind all of it. Is it true that he has ties to the Prime Minister?" There's a hungry look in his eyes, but his hunger isn't for you.

  
"I want to dance." You stand up so abruptly that your leg bangs against the table, making the candle between you flicker precariously.

  
Ramsay takes out a small, leather-bound notebook and a pen, flicking off the cap.

  
"We can dance later, sweetheart. Business first."

  
Your face freezes. "Business?"

  
"If you're concerned about anonymity, I can assure you, we're very discreet, Y/N. We will refer to you as an anonymous source close to the family. No repercussions."

  
The color drains from your coral-powdered cheeks. "Oh my god."

  
"We can discuss payment after–"

  
"Stop this. Stop!" This isn't a date, you realize. This is an interview.

  
Ramsay looks up from his notebook and adjusts his glasses over his nose. "Y/N? You don't have to be afraid of them."

  
You shake your head, hand curling around the back of your chair. The rushing in your ears is louder than the music. "This was a mistake. I...I have to go."

  
"Are you sleeping with him?"

  
"What?"

  
He meets your gaze unblinking and without shame. "Are you sleeping with Tommy Shelby?"

  
Before common sense can reassert itself, your grab your unfinished drink from the table. A second later, gin is dripping from his stunned face and you're spinning on your heels, staggering toward the exit.

Thoughts knock against the inside of your skull like tiny sledgehammers. Your eyes burnwithhumiliation. You wipe at them angrily.

  
You've almost reached the door when you're slammed into the mirrored wall, male hands digging into the soft flesh of your shoulder.

  
"So, this is how you want to play it, huh?" Ramsay gives your struggling body a rough shake. He reeks of bitter gin and hair grease.

  
"Get off me, you pig."

  
"If you want to be difficult, have at it. It's not every day that I get to touch something that belongs to Tommy Shelby."

  
He crushes his mouth against yours, teeth gnashing together as he tries to force his tongue into your mouth. Your insides twist with revulsion.

  
You bite down. The tangy taste of salt and copper explodes on your tongue and Ramsay jerks back, cursing. You stomp on his foot for good measure and shove him back.

  
"Stuck-up, little bitch, you fucking bit me." He sneers, bloody spit bubbling through his crooked teeth as he advances on you, hand raised.

  
He doesn't get far.

  
The mirror on the wall cracks on impact with his head. Again and again. His pained groans turn to whimpers when he sees the gun the man in the long, black coat is pointing at his forehead.

  
"Mr. Shelby, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't know, man. I didn't know she was yours, I swear. Please, I have a wifebackhome," he sniffles, breaking down.

  
The flat, pitiless look in Mr. Shelby's eyes scares you. You've never seen him like this, so cold. He looks almost inhuman, like a demon visiting its wrath upon mankind.

  
"Sir, please." You hate how weak and brittle your voice sounds, like dead leaves in autumn.  
The leather of his gloves creaks as he tightens his grip on the gun.

  
"Tommy," you say more loudly. "Tommy, don't."  
Still not looking at you, he slowly lowers his arm with the gun until it points at the floor.

  
"Yes, thank you, sir, oh, thank you," Ramsay sobs, legs buckling. The fabric around the fly of his trousers is darker than the rest. You wrinkle your nose as a rank smell reaches your nostrils.

  
"Look at you, fucking pathetic," Mr. Shelby snarls. "You will burn that notebook or I'll send one of my men and he'll pay your house in Greet a visit. Nod if you understand."

  
Ramsay nods desperately enough to dislocate his neck.

  
"You wont write that story. You won't mention her name, or mine. Now–" Two broad-chested doormen appear at Mr. Shelby's side like hellhounds summoned by the devil himself.

"Get him the fuck out of here," he tells them. "And send someone to clean up this mess." Then, his magnetic blue gaze finally fixes on you and you want to cry.

You feel ridiculous, all tarted up in your newly bought dress and your hair styled the way you'd seen women in the magazines wear them.

  
He approaches you with the same care he shows easily spooked, war-worn horses, gripping the back of your neck between his two fingers. When he cups it and his thumb brushes the first notch of your spine below the nape, you're torn between turning your head and pitching forward to bury your face in that warm, dusty black coat for comfort.

  
"Are you all right? Come on, look at me." He tips up your chin to inspect your face in a way that brooks no argument.

  
You catch a brief glimpse of your smudged lipstick in the mirror and your shoulders collapse, embarrassment burning hot under your skin as you rub at your mouth.

  
"How did you know where to find me?"

  
"The manager called me."

  
"Why would he–" It's only then that you see the S engraved on the club's frosted glass doors. S for Shelby. "Of course, he did. Is there something in this city that you don't own?"

  
He squeezes your nape, clearinghisthroat. "One or two things come to mind."

  
"I'm sorry for causing you so trouble, sir." You swallow hard. "I just wanted to go out and dance."  
His eyes bore into yours for a moment, then he's pulling you toward the ballroom, his almost completely wrapped around yours.

  
"Where are we going?" You have a hard time keeping up with his long, determined strides.

  
"You said you wanted to dance," he says over his shoulder. "So we'll dance."

Staff and guests stop and tip their hats to him. You're not sure if they're afraid or in awe of him.

  
"We can't." Despite your words, your heart somersaults in your chest as he cuts a path through the dancing couples.

  
"Why not?"

  
"Because the song is too slow. And it would be inappropriate for us to dance seeing as you're the one writing my paycheck every month, Mr. Shelby."

  
He arches his brows, unimpressed. "And as your employer it's my responsibility to see to your well-being." Putting your hand on his shoulder, the onewith the bulletwound, he leads you into a turn.

You take great care not to step on his toes.

  
"Also, this is your night off, Y/N. You're not working for me for another–" He checks his watch, "–not for another three hours. Just one song."

  
It's one of those sentimental ballads that were as popular among homesick soldiers as they were in the pubsand living rooms back home. You used to sing them to your mother, to cheer her up when another month went by with no letters from France.

You imagine a young soldier hunched in the muddy trenches, humming a song from home underhis breath whiletearsfreezeonhis palecheeks.

_"'tis winter icy winter_   
_in that silent heart of thine_   
_‘twill not be so forever"_

Swaying together, chest to chest, heart to heart, you realize something. It's a Friday night. You've seen the pile of invitations on his desk–charity events, the Lord Mayor's birthday reception, dinners with politicians and other people of influence at the Ritz.

  
And still, he came to you.

_"mine own true love thou art_   
_in thine eyes it may be winter_   
_'twill be summer in thine heart"_

"Alright, Tommy." You tuck your face into his shoulder and close your eyes.  
 _Just one song._

~

He leaves the car on, his wrists draped over the steering wheel. The many windows of Arrow House are opaque squares, no light shining through the curtains. Mary and the rest of the house staff always go to bed early.

  
"How much longer?" You ask, shivering even though it's already May.

  
"Eleven minutes until midnight." You can't make out his face. In some ways, he's easier to read in the darkness.

  
Your lips find his, shy and searching. He lets you come to him, his hand finding purchase in your hair, fingers curving around the back of your head. It's oddly sweet.

  
"Nine minutes,Y/N," he whispers and runs his knuckles along your cheekbone.

  
You climb into his lap, straddling his legs.

  
Neither of you notices when the eleven minutes are up.


End file.
